One day in the life of Ivan Denisovich..Shukhov was about to get frisked. He wasn't much worried, because he was always been a good zek and that was known by the guards and his friends. If they happened to find it, then he would simply say, "Oh, that is not mine, someone slipped it into my clothing". And he would go on. It was naïve of him to think that way.
He was next. He noticed that the guard wasn't in a good mood today. The freezing was really making everybody frustrated. What if that excuse wouldn't work, what would he do. Doubting thoughts ran across his mind.
It was too late now to back out. He was asked to take off his mittens and to unbutton his coat. Although he was a little bit terrified, he tried acting tough. He stood there confident- Come on, frisk me! His overconfidence made him suspicious to everyone, just like he had something to hide.
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The guard started slapping Shukhov's sides and back, and the outside of his pants pocket. He kneaded the edges of coat and jacket.
Nothing there.
He was in the middle of frisking his mittens, but then he was called by his chief. Shukov felt relieved that the guard had to discontinue, but the guard grabbed both mittens to check them on the way there. The guard felt a piece of metal cutting his finger. He took it out. It was a piece of hacksaw!The guard's chief noticed that and started shouting in rage, "TO WHOM DOES THIS BELONG? I need an answer NOW!"The guard whispered to him something.
"Prisoner S-854, GET HERE, you dirty peasant!"Shukhov stepped out. He felt icy wind turning to him. He stood there emotionless. He didn't see a reason why should he revolt anymore and reason to lie. The guards didn't care what he had to say anyways. The decision was made immediately and he would have to rot in the hole for ten days and then die of sickness. That was his destiny.
He was dumped into the rotten death-bringing cell. It didn't really make a change if you were outside or inside. The weather was the same icy freezing. Shukhov had been isolated from others. There was no one to talk to, not even God. He was mad at God bringing the dark cloud over him.
It ought to be the worst days of his three thousand six hundred and fifty-three days.
Vladimir Grigoryevich Shukhov
Shukhov
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